


Unique and Accepted

by ArcheaMajuar



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21546163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcheaMajuar/pseuds/ArcheaMajuar
Summary: “I’m not certain,” admitted Hastings, tilting his head to the side. “You think these people admire you, yet do not like… being around you?” voiced Hastings his idea aloud even though he more or less expected Poirot’s explanations would be a completely different one. “I hope not as it sounds ridiculous to me.”
Relationships: Arthur Hastings/Hercule Poirot
Comments: 16
Kudos: 103





	Unique and Accepted

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my mother tongue as I'm from the Czech Republic. There are mistakes in the story, I know, but I don't have anyone around to give me their feedback on the fic, grammar and so on (but if you'd like to let me know about the mistakes, please, do so in the comments bellow or just send me an email (you find it on my profile page), it'd be much appreciated)
> 
> I'm really sorry for the errors, but I hope you'll enjoy this work anyway :)
> 
> Despite my usual criticism of my own works, I, indeed, love this one... The song Well Worn Hand by Editors was the inspiration for this story :) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eqIAgBKj3ME

Hastings perceived it as a kind of enlightenment. Like he finally realized that he had been living in a polished, well-constructed lie. His senses fooled, his rational thinking subdued. How was it possible he had not deciphered it earlier? Had he been just so blind, so deaf, and so dumb?

Well, there was something Hastings would’ve never hesitated to accepted, and it was his own dullness, yet he did not comprehend the reason why he happened to see the light exactly during this very evening.

If he had been happily living within the borders of the lie, not even thinking about the omnipresent facade surrounding him, why would have he discovered the wrongness on this occasion? Was the Sir Leroy Fletcher’s banquet special in any way?

 _Probably not_ , he mused. So why was he suddenly able to regard the situation in its true colours, in its deplorable state, in its utter rottenness?

“Est-ce que tu vas bien, Hastings?” a gently spoken inquiry eased Hastings back to reality.

The man blinked, confused, fixing his gaze upon his friend who was looking at him expectantly, curiosity written in every feature of his rounded face.

“Yes, old man, sure thing,” Hastings smiled weakly, being quite sure Poirot did not believe him, but it was also because Hastings was still standing in the hall of Poirot’s flat, and as he acknowledged, his hand remained motionless upon the rag where he had hanged his coat.

There he was standing, frozen, preoccupied with his little revelations for who-knows-how-long before Poirot addressed him quietly.

“Maybe you would enjoy a glass of brandy, yes?” suggested the Belgian detective, and his attentive approach helped Hastings’ smile to genuinely reach up to his heavenly blue eyes.

“I say, that’s a splendid idea, Poirot,” were Hastings’ spirits revived as he truly appreciated Poirot’s input, moreover, when it was experienced in such a short succession after the ignorance of the society they had just abandoned.

His smile grateful and eyes bright, Hastings followed his friend to the main room where in a span of minute, the both of them were seated with glasses of their favourite beverages in their hands. After loosening his tie and collar, the Englishman took a sip and made his frame comfortable on the couch while Poirot neatly arranged himself on the armchair.

Companionable silenced lingered in the air, easing the tension which Hastings previously hadn’t been entirely aware of, but it was there, the remnants of stress within his shoulders and chest, which seemed to be a bit constricted with… with bitterness bordering even with betrayal.

He had already drunk some amount of alcohol at the banquet, so he would have guessed the brandy would not do much of a change, but after another gulp he felt himself relaxing, his head getting heavy, his thoughts wandering around, however, in the end, the today’s realization left such a deep mark upon his soul that his mind adhered to it, to one of the unhappiest moments of Hastings’ life.

He sighed under his breath, literally forcing himself to wriggle out of the spiral of unpleasant thoughts he was constantly slipping into, doing so just in time to catch Poirot’s another question.

“What do you assume of Miss Tenebry, Hastings? The lady with auburn hair you have spent quite a time discussing horses?” he asked in a polite interest expressing manner, and although Hastings subconsciously knew Poirot was looking for more than a simple answer, the Englishman didn’t think of it much as he immediately looked back to the evening, recalling his impression on Miss Tenebry’s company.

“Nothing much, I daresay,” Hastings shrugged, his tone as indifferent as his feelings towards the young woman were. “She knows horses, of course, but she speaks of them in a very unsettling way like she doesn’t care about them at all. Like she owns them only to have something to brag about, I guess, as otherwise, there’s not a single reason why she should spend a fortune on horses if she’s not capable of discerning how admirable these animals are.”

Once Hastings replied, he casted a sidelong glance at Poirot who nodded, seemingly satisfied, yet as the Englishman looked more carefully at him, his friend was eyeing him quite suspiciously, and with a certain astonishment in his raised eyebrows.

“Dear Hastings neither enchanted by an auburn lady’s beauty, nor by her passion for horses, even noticing her cold attitude towards them despite his tendencies to overlook every possible flaw in women…” listened Poirot what struck him odd about his companion, and as Hastings glanced right into his brown eyes, he felt as if there was a flicker of mischief in them, though the twitch of his lips was gentle, which consoled Hastings’ igniting irritation right upon its inception.

However, the bitter taste was not washed away completely as it pained the Englishmen on the inside that he found himself again on the verge of being mocked for not understanding something, for being fooled by others, for being a naïve imbecile as he was labelled numerous times.

And sometimes it just hurt that Poirot was from time to time apparently struggling not to give in and ridicule him as the others did, but on the other hand, he had never really laughed at him for anything he did, no matter how stupid his deeds were, no matter how oblivious to clear facts he was.

Such conclusion convinced Hastings to sip at his drink once more, and then to share what troubled his honest soul.

“Aren’t you… you personally, sometimes tired of these people we regularly meet at such banquets?” he asked rather his glass, which he was peering into, than Poirot. “I mean... when I look back… The people we encounter are almost always of the same sort and hardly ever do we meet somebody who is not connected to any type of a crime. Maybe it’s not their fault, but… I just…” trailed Hastings off as he ran out of words that could sufficiently describe his thoughts, however, instead of executing a further search for them, he was stuck on the fact he did not know how to continue, so jumped to a hasty conclusion that he was only babbling. “Sorry, my friend,” he shrugged in resignation, glancing up with a slightly ashamed expression, flashing Poirot with a guilty smile, “It’s probably nothing. Just the alcohol talking, I guess.”

“It is always something important when it is upsetting you, my dear Hastings,” offered Poirot gently, upon which Hastings beamed at him, looking ever so grateful at once. “And to assure you that your ideas are not entirely misguided, I feel obliged to say I, indeed, am sometimes tired but not of those people in general. Only by those who seem to admire Poirot immensely, yet they do not possess the ability to stand his presence for more than a few hours, if you understand me, mon ami.”

“I’m not certain,” admitted Hastings, tilting his head to the side. “You think these people admire you, yet do not like… being around you?” voiced Hastings his idea aloud even though he more or less expected Poirot’s explanations would be a completely different one. “I hope not as it sounds ridiculous to me.”

The level of his puzzlement was even enhanced once Poirot smiled at him in the softest possible way, and Hastings involuntarily shivered, opting for ignoring the sudden urge to comfort his friend. Instead of that absolutely inappropriate reaction he gulped, his gaze still intently focused on Poirot who remained quiet for a while, looking to the floor, apparently making up his mind about what he was going to say.

“As I have already agreed with you, Hastings, sometimes I grow tired of all the people around me save for a few of them, including you, my dearest friend. Have you ever maybe… wondered why it is so?” raised Poirot a question, and Hastings frowned a bit, gathering the traces of doubts linked to the topic within his memory.

Although the amount of consumed alcohol hampered his endeavours, Hastings was sure he had thought about this particular issue numerous times, but he always had somehow… pushed the disturbing second guesses aside.

“I did,” he conceded truthfully while not knowing exactly why, his chest was heavy with sadness, his voice bore the subtlest hint of hurt, but just the feeling itself helped him right away to comprehend.

Blue eyes averted from Poirot, pointed at the window as Hastings experienced a pang of embarrassment. He was not supposed to think of it, to be so foolish once again, but still he knew that deep inside his soul it troubled him even more than the whole problem with pretentious people at the banquet.

While pondering again the issue with this sort of peers, Hastings realized he was not satisfied with the answer he provided Poirot with. His friend was patient now, waiting for him to elaborate, which… Hastings sighed because this waiting for his brain to grasp the whole meaning… it was tightly connected to what was almost tormenting him.

Bracing himself to reply, he was still hesitating as his innate English restraint warned him to be so open, not to reveal his worries, yet the warmth within his chest persuaded Hastings to speak up. The warmth he felt only when Poirot was present… the warmth he tended to interpret as the way his soul was telling his that he is safe.

“In fact, I did, Poirot, and since the… the differences… between us, I mean,” he dared looking up only to be met with Poirot’s eyes, and the nod his friend gave him inflamed Hastings’ determination to finish his statement. “You see that during each case I face your brilliance, your genius, and your stunning detective abilities while I usually can’t see whether I’m any use to you. There are plenty of people who could do the same, the utterly futile help I grant you with, and God, they’d do it even better… In a more organized way, I reckon, but…” faltered Hastings as he felt his cheeks going red under the unyielding Poirot’s gaze, under his interest in him – the guy who could get fooled by anybody without realizing it.

Unable to bear the growing not so unpleasant tension, Hastings focused on the half-empty glass in his hand, staring gloomily in the golden liquid.

“But you seem you don’t mind me… not being as bright as the average chaps are, so… so yes, I sometimes do wonder why you haven’t grown tired of me. Of my premature conclusions or my obliviousness,” he added more quietly than he actually intended to, but it came out as a timid whisper, by which Hastings was sure Poirot must have sensed how much it troubled his English friend.

However, Hastings did not regret it as the feeling of safety was prevailing over insecurity. Being adamant that Poirot would not mock him now, he drank at his bourbon while he once again fixed his look upon Poirot’s face. His heart was hammering, his palms sweaty, but Hastings’ mind was at peace because the answer had been completed.

“I admire your frankness, my dear Hastings,” said Poirot simply, casting Hastings into baffled blinking. “This is a fact, and also a partial reason why I, indeed, treasure your company.”

Hastings’s heart missed a beat as he felt the corners of his mouth curving upwards, his eyes gentling. He might have been questioning why Poirot liked him, yet he would have never doubted that he certainly did enjoy being around him. Despite it was a mystery to him, the way they got along so well despite being so different, he had always tried to take it as it was…

“It is true you usually, during a case, assign higher importance to discoveries that are more or less trivial, and you are a real master of jumping to conclusions, but it is because our thoughts ran in various directions. We are then bound to develop independent theories, one more probable, one less, but in the end, my dear friend, thanks to you Poirot is far more efficient than without you,” was his smile tender, touching Hastings deeply, nudging him into finishing the monologue for him.

“Because I, on my own, examine the less probable ones, the far-fetched ones, and once I reveal them to you, you by assuming them stupid you do not have to waste time with taking them in consideration?” suggested Hastings, tone almost cheerful, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Exactement,” seemed Poirot to be at most pleased that Hastings understood him. “You share your theories and sometimes you point out an obvious detail I have not noticed because of being too absorbed in complicated matters, and this is another thing, Hastings, which you contribute to me with. And moreover, your perceptiveness does not undergo any changes… You still tend to see things in the same way you did when we met for the very first time, yet you do let your judgement be influenced neither by me, nor by other people.”

The honesty was literally resonating within his words, sending mild shivers down Hastings’ spine as he noticed also the force Poirot was putting into his speech, he even leaned closer to Hastings as it apparently meant very much to him to make Hastings grasp what he was trying to say. Maybe… Hastings again cocked his head as he was watching his dear friend, his chest constructed even more than it had been minutes ago, the atmosphere around them somewhat urgent, needy, serious… Like…

Like something huge, something of huge importance was about to be unveiled, therefore Hastings pointing his attention at Poirot again, however, quite in the same instant he became turning over and over in his head the peculiar desperation radiating from Poirot’s features.

“Despite me being sometimes too harsh and too dismissive about your ideas, you are still here, mon cher Hastings,” said Poirot. “You have never taken my words in offense, you are even making as it is a walk in a park to be with me…”

Now Hastings was frowning again.

“Someone has ever told you it is difficult?” asked Hastings who managed to connect the dots as Poirot was referring to his opinion on people whom adored him, yet did not like to be around him, however, he was clueless regarding one question… Why?!

Incredulously, he witnessed Poirot letting out a long exhale, mixing amusement and an ounce of tiredness in it, which Hastings understood as he again, was slow up on the uptake, being bewildered even more.

“They do not have to necessarily say it, Hastings,” told him Poirot in such a calm tone that Hastings realized his confusion did not bother Poirot anymore like… like Poirot was suggesting it was alright not to comprehend, therefore Hastings almost smiled, feeling pleasantly accepted. “But do you see anybody else to accompany me day by day? Who is still at my side without complaining?”

“Well, Miss Lemon…”

“I said day by day.”

“…then Japp…”

“I said without complaining.”

 _There’s only me,_ clicked it in Hastings’s head, however, the confusion did not vanish entirely as the Englishman was torn between feeling sorry for his friend and being utterly happy that Poirot, indeed, aloud acknowledged that he was here for him anytime.

“But Japp doesn’t mean it… I believe, he admires you sincerely,” Hastings felt obliged to assert as talking about others appeared to be a much safer ground than discussing his credits. 

“I believe, it is so,” nodded Poirot, giving Hasting a small touched smile, before his voice shifted back to being grave. “However, as much as I might be dear to him, sometimes he is forced to put his job and responsibility before our friendship. Sometimes he cannot be here as a friend, but only as an inspector, compelled to follow the law strictly.”

“But I, too, follow the law…” saw Hastings the point of Poirot’s speech, even though not completely.

“No, mon ami, you follow what you believe is right. It may encompass the law, of course, yet the most important thing for you is your heart,” explained Poirot patiently to his friend whom kept looking at him perplexedly, though in a span of second he lowered his gaze, the wheels inside his mind reeling.

“Despite being the best detective in Europe, I, from time to time, misjudge what is important in life, but for reminding me, I have you.”

Hastings’ heart swelled at that, his eyes snapping back to Poirot in this instance. His look growing affectionate as he glanced at his dear friend whom rarely ever praised him, but today… tonight… when he was feeling down…

“Although I treasure intelligence, you always remind me how much admiration you deserve due to your loyalty, bravery, and kindness. These are the reasons I am grateful for you being with me for so long while others are not able to stand me,” was Poirot’s voice low, but Hastings heard each word, and he literally sensed as he was drawn more and more to the remarkable man in front of him, drawn to him by the unexpected openness they were sharing.

“I would stand you for ages, Poirot,” said Hastings in extraordinarily gentle tone, empty hands near to tingling with the abrupt wave of nervousness that had definitely something to do with the heat Hastings noticed upon his cheeks.

Putting the empty glass on the table, he rubbed his palms on his trousers, though his gleaming eyes were again trained on Poirot’s face. He saw Poirot’s expression to be changing, the shadow of sadness within the brown pair of eyes causing a pang of hurt within his chest.

 _Have I said something which could upset him?_ , he wondered, but then an idea crossed his mind.

Maybe… maybe he only didn’t say enough.

“Truth be told, my friend, I’d prefer not to meet such people who can’t stand you ever again,” he mumbled only half-heartedly, being convinced it wasn’t appropriate to reveal things lurking deep down in his soul, therefore he had to look away from his friend, his eyes roaming around the room.

The silence the room plunged in was uncomfortable though, so he let the alcohol take the better of him, babbling anything, so he would forget the unsettling tension he did not see coming.

“Generally, I like people, talking to them about everything and nothing, getting to know new chaps interested in cars and horses and cricket, meeting decent and well-mannered girls with good hearts, but when a man gets to see so much crime… I guess I could’ve never avoided being deluded, and then, the revelation hitting me right in the face… That they’re wearing masks, that their polished behaviour is only a cheap masquerade meant to conceal the true intentions, to conceal the whole web of lies... Of course, I reckon that sometimes a man is allowed to lie to protect the loved ones, but still… in order to unearth the plot behind a hideous deed...”

“Does it make you feel angry?” stopped Poirot Hastings’ rambling with a question, after which Hastings turned to him, the look in his eyes unfocused and hazy, yet he frowned at the suggestion.

Before he answered, he thought about it, “I don’t think so,” he shook his head. “It makes me feel sad. Sad and lonely… as if I’m the only man in the world who is trying to treat others with sheer honesty…” adding this, Hastings experienced a sting deep in his guts because he knew he was lying. Just a tiny bit, but yes, he…

Rage cruised through his veins as he realized he was like all those people. Closing his eyes in defeat, he tiredly rubbed his face because he didn’t see how… …how to tell the truth. Poirot had just said he admired him, he appreciated his presence, and thus there was not a chance he would spoil the moment with his… with his… with own honesty. He couldn’t do it…

“Your nature is most beautiful, mon cher Hastings…”

The words were vibrating with that loving velvet-like tone Poirot spoke in, and its intensity was so powerful it penetrated the mist in Hastings’ brain, dispelling the fog, and then aiming right at the Englishman’s soul. It set a huge emotionally wave within him into a motion, his heart throbbed, urging him into saying something, into reciprocating Poirot’s frankness, something… something surging right from his thundering heart…

“Right now I… I just wish I could stay here. With you. Only with you alone, and never having to go out, never having to see anybody else…”

The remnants of his rational thinking were screaming at him that he was talking nonsense, but it was exactly what he desired, what his heart wanted.

To be with Poirot and nobody else, because nobody else was Poirot…

Hastings heard him standing up, however, a prior Hastings could have started fretting out about upsetting him with his silly words, the detective closed the distance between them, sitting next to Hastings whom looked up to him, hopefully, longingly.

“But do you see, Hastings, I’m not like you? I mean… My honesty…”

“But it feels you are the only one I can trust,” was Hastings’ gaze unyielding, yet soft around the edge because he was staring at Poirot. “The only one who have ever wanted the best for me… as much as I want the best for you, my friend.”

And then, Hastings knew he had to confess, he had to tell the truth even though it could hurt and disappoint Poirot tremendously. Yes, there was a possibility of it, but if Hastings’ trusted Poirot, it must be unconditionally, although… although some of the doubts faded away from his mind as upon his own words, Poirot dropped his glance to Hastings’ legs where his hands were fidgeting, and planted a palm on the top of Hastings’ one.

“Calm down, mon ami,” he said once Hastings again met his brown, warm… so warm and soothing eyes, and the Englishman was not sure anymore whether he felt so hot and dizzy because of the alcohol or Poirot’s close presence and because of his touch upon his palm.

 _So soft, so warm_ , he thought as he gulped once a shiver run down his spine, and only then he clustered enough courage to move his own hand, turning the palm upwards to feel more of the texture of Poirot’s hand, of the delicate skin…

“Calm down, mon ami, and take my well-worn hand. We can hide here from the outer world, we can be here alone, and we can lock ourselves away even if for a while, mon cher, if that is what you wish,” he said, his eyes never leaving Hastings’ who was utterly mesmerized by where their little discussion lead them, and what had been revealed to him, what he suddenly saw clearly.

He trusted Poirot. He felt safe with him.

Squeezing Poirot’s hand lightly, he spoke up with pure gratitude within his voice as he could not tear his gaze away from the emotions Poirot was looking at him with, and for a brief second he thought he saw there anticipation igniting slowly, but steadily.

“Yes, I’d love that very much,” was his voice quiet, almost a whisper, yet as he voiced the rest of his thoughts, there was no doubt Poirot caught it, “I’d love you to be here… with me…”

 _…to hold you, to kiss you…_ was going through Hastings’ head while he was watching his dear Poirot sitting so close to him, he could almost sense the heat of his body, but he certainly noticed the lingering scent of his cologne which he had grown to adore, being comforted and unsettled by it likewise by Poirot’s thumb, stroking his palm. There was a glint of happiness shining in his eyes, though Hastings’ still had the impression that his friend was insecure about something.

The Englishmen swallow hard as the feeling of hope hit him unguarded, causing him to immediately open his mouth, voicing what was resonating inside his soul, “I’d… love... to be with you.”

Saying this, he dipped his chin down slightly, only suggesting what he could be aiming at, what he could be very much willing to do, but still being at most respectful and careful for he might have misunderstood something. The surprise crossing Poirot’s features at first startled him, but then… but then Poirot was kissing him, gripping his hand tightly as his other palm was placed upon Hastings’ face, brushing the heated skin tenderly.

This time it was Hastings’ turn to be shocked, but as the softest possible lips captured his own, all the shock was washed away with gratitude, love, pure happiness, and desire, awakening deep within his bones, eliciting a quiet moan from him. The needy sound was muffled by their kiss that was nothing more than just a sweet touch of their lips, yet Hastings’ was not able to refrain from opening his mouth, kissing Poirot back hungrily, inviting him in.

Another whimper escaped him as Poirot obliged and Hastings was struck by a bolt of quivering arousal.

 _Dear Lord… I hadn’t even noticed I craved Poirot so much…_ he mused, realizing his friend must have been in the same state for quite a time as he plunged into the kiss like he had spent past years in painful longing… for a dense and totally average Englishman Hastings was, but he would have never traded it for being anybody else if it meant Poirot wanted him, which seemed to be… so.

“Mon dieu, Hastings, it takes you years to comprehend what one’s desires are, but when you do…” said Poirot once they parted, his brown eyes clouded with want, face flushed, but Hastings despite his friend’s delicious expression smiled as Poirot seemed to be gloriously surprised when the words rang in his own ears.

 _As he didn’t mean to say them aloud_ , thought Hasting, feeling touched and proud that only with a kiss, he was able to affect Poirot to such extend that he could not hold back his tongue, which was making him totally adorable. The detective’s shock for a second changed into annoyance, yet Hastings’ wiped all the irritation away with his free hand, planted on Poirot’s cheek. Smiling lovingly at him, he was a bit tipsy as his head was, indeed, spinning with alcohol and delight.

“I’m sorry,” meant Hastings honestly, though Poirot shook his head mildly.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, mon cher,” curved his lips into a reassuring smile, spreading warmth throughout Hastings’ chest as once again he was reminded how safe he felt with Poirot. How much he trusted him, how much he treasured being…

“And there’s nothing wrong about the way you are, Hastings,” added Poirot, and Hastings’ finished the train of his thoughts with… being accepted.

It burnt. It was almost too much, too painfully beautiful that upon noticing Poirot wanted to continue, he shifted his finger to Poirot’s lips, shaking his head, and as an answer to Poirot’s questioning look, he bowed down a kissed his friend whom he loved so much it hurt, but it was a perfect kind of pain he was trembling with.

And it was alright. He was safe with the only man he trusted with whole-heartedly, with who he was safe from all those pretentious people, and Poirot was safe from those who admired him, yet did not even like his unique personality. The both of them were safe with each other. Safe, loved, and accepted.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, maybe the banquet was a special one after all…


End file.
